


Proper Manners and Western Ways

by Footloose



Series: Prompt Fics [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Bets & Wagers, Gambling, M/M, Mutual Pining, Saloons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9443993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: Gwaine and Merlin ran west to escape the suffocating rules of proper society in Boston.  They found the courage to live new lives, but it takes a bit of gambling before they can catch the courage to give in to love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt over on LJ by Tarmetiel requesting Western Merthur and/or Perwaine. Here, have both!

Gwaine was of the belief that Percival was trying to kill him.

Distracted by the fantastic arse presented for his perusal as Percival picked up his fallen hat, Gwaine overfilled the glass. He spilled precious whiskey on the counter and recovered a little too late, splashing the mess onto his trousers. Cursing, Gwaine reached for the dirty rag and attempted to sop up the worst of it.

"Bollocks," he muttered.

On the other side of the bar, Merlin snorted. Gingerly, he picked up his glass with thumb and forefinger, tapped the dribble off with his middle finger, and carefully slurped the contents until the volume was below the rim. "Next time you take the rubbish out, just lure the Sheriff out to the barn and bugger him already."

Gwaine shot Merlin a glare. He traded his wet towel for a new rag, finished cleaning up the sticky bartop, and said, "Mind your own business."

Merlin's lopsided smirk was irritating, but only because it came with a cocksure wink that wouldn't have been there before Merlin had come out West. The dry desert air and lawless freedom had done him good where the strict rules of society had oppressed him, but it wasn't right to see Merlin had bloomed and Gwaine… Gwaine was stuck in a goddamn rut.

If Gwaine were honest, their whirlwind escape through Boston's city streets, fleeing angry family members, society's elite, and the policemen who were confused about being pulled into the hunt? That had been, by far, the most thrilling thing that he'd done in his entire life. Already a social pariah, Gwaine had suffered the derision of his so-called peers no matter what he did. Whether his choices were good or bad, his behaviour impeccable or deplorable, his grace without equal or as appalling as possible, everyone regarded him with the same disdain as they had since the first time he'd been caught with his trousers around his ankles and his hand around another boy's cock.

He thought he'd left that world behind when he'd hopped on the train with Merlin, but somehow, the chains of cultured society had followed him into the wilderness and were choking him a bit more every day.

There were no old ladies looking down their noses at him, not here. No posh society men sniffing about Gwaine Greene or commenting how it was good that Lord Greene was dead and couldn't witness the disgrace his son had become, not anymore. No more murmurs about his parents rolling in their grave, either. Gwaine should be beyond all that. He was beyond all that.

Gwaine could give a toss about the people he'd left behind, but all those words of worthlessness had stuck to him and left him gun-shy.

So he could look at the magnificence that was the Sheriff of Camelot, but he couldn't… He couldn't. Gwaine couldn't bring himself to touch, to start up a conversation, to taint the Sheriff with the mark of a man who was nothing more than a scoundrel who watered down drinks, overcharged for the sarsaparilla, and might also have had a hand in some of the major stagecoach robberies on the outskirts of town, though he'd never own up to them.

At least Merlin had done well for himself. He'd been a brilliant accountant at his uncle's bank in Boston; but out here, he'd traded his seat behind a desk in a stuffy room for a seat at the card table in the stuffy corner of Gwaine's saloon. Merlin could out-count any man, out-bluff them, and his poncy shiny vests and too-tight clothes and fancy manners distracted law enforcement from the tiny, niggling fact that he was magic with his six-shooters and the ringleader of every hold-up of the stagecoaches that brought in Pendragon's money every few months.

While Gwaine was mooning dreamily over Perceval, Merlin was out pulling a certain someone's pigtails.

"I'll tell you what," Merlin drawled, glancing over his shoulder when the local ranching baron's son, Arthur Pendragon, walked into the bar. For once, Pendragon wasn't accompanied by his haughty older sister, Morgana, and his best friend Leon, who also doubled as his bodyguard, was nowhere to be seen.

Gwaine could practically see Merlin gather up his courage, sweeping it all in the way he did the chips at the card table.

"I'll go over there right now and snog Pendragon silly if you'd just bloody well _talk_ to the Sheriff," Merlin said.

Gwaine's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. _Snogging Pendragon_ was right up there with approaching the English King and asking him to use his fancy cloak to shine muddy shoes. It was, to quote Merlin, _Not on_. A man of good breeding simply did not perform uncouth actions. 

There was no way Gwaine would be losing this bet. Merlin might have come out of his shell since they escaped the suffocation that had been Boston, but he wasn't that brave. 

"That's bold," Gwaine said.

Merlin made a frustrated noise. "That's the thing," he said, gesturing between them. "We came out here because we were done with all that proper high-strung bollocks. We weren't living our lives, we were doing whatever we could within the confines of our bloody leashes in order to keep from going nutters, but we were going nutters no matter what. And this?"

Merlin's arm swung out in Arthur Pendragon's direction, so wild and aimless that he nearly knocked over a passing barmaid's tray. Sefa scrambled to balance the glasses before they toppled over entirely and gave Merlin an angry scowl. Several customers glanced in their direction but returned to their own business after a few seconds. Pendragon looked up from where he was in conversation with one of the railroad men, his mouth pressed together, his brow furrowed in a curious frown, and he didn't look away from Merlin for the longest time.

Gwaine wondered if he should point that out to Merlin, but that would just make Merlin tongue-tied and shy, and as fun as it was to watch, Gwaine actually wanted to hear what Merlin had to say.

"This? I want him so fucking much I can't tell you. He infuriates me. I can't have a polite conversation with him without offending his royal sensibilities or getting pissed because he's. Such. A. Bloody. Arse. And the whole time? I'm thinking about dragging him to the nearest shadowy corner to have my way with him." 

Merlin nodded with determination, mostly to himself, his cheeks flushed red, and stood up straight, shoulders back, intent and dashing.

"Neither of us ain't got no leash or collar around our throats no more," Merlin said, leaning forward. His Oxford education was gone, now, seemingly thrown out the window with the bathwater. Merlin was more himself this way -- laid-back and insouciant, hiding his shrewd intelligence behind a friendly grin that had been all too rare to see in Boston and a drawl that was like sin. "And if doing what I want and getting what I want means being bold, then, bold is what I'm gonna be."

"You don't need me for that," Gwaine pointed out. He gestured at Merlin's clothes. "You're plenty bold on your own."

"You didn't let me wallow in a nowhere job where one day I was gonna die from ink poisoning, go half-blind from trying to read Muirden's shite handwriting and correct Gilli's arithmetic, then marry some woman I'd never be able to stand looking at," Merlin said. "What makes you think I'm going to leave you behind?"

Gwaine sighed. He scratched the scruff of a three-day-old beard along his jaw and closed his eyes. He wondered what the odds were that he'd be able to get out of this bet unscathed, but he wasn't going to ask Merlin, who had probably calculated them in his head already. It was best not to know. He could only hope that Merlin would be overwhelmed by the yellow streak that always seemed to creep up whenever Pendragon was involved.

Merlin must have spotted his resignation, because he stuck out his hand. "Talk to the Sheriff."

"Snog Pendragon," Gwaine said, taking Merlin's hand. Merlin grinned and went to pull away, but Gwaine's hand tightened to keep him still. "I've got _conditions_."

"Because you're never happy unless things go your way. Of course you do," Merlin said, rolling his eyes. 

"No bloody shadows when you snog him," Gwaine said. "Right here in pubic where everyone can see. It's for your own good. You know the Princess won't skulk about, and it's not fair of you to ask him to be your sweet secret."

Merlin's mouth pressed into an unhappy downturn, but he nodded as if, _Yes, that's true_ , and nodded again a second later, with decisive determination. A flash of fear ran down Gwaine's spine, because when Merlin was like this, there was no talking him out of whatever he was about to do.

In a last-ditch effort to save himself, Gwaine said, "And you gotta do it now. The next ten minutes."

"What?" Merlin asked, pale.

Gwaine shrugged a shoulder. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"What," Merlin said again, glancing over his shoulder.

"You're the one arse over tits, full of righteous speech of being bold and taking what you want," Gwaine goaded. He swallowed in momentary confusion, because while he really did want Merlin to be happy, he didn't want to be pushed into something he wasn't ready for, either. But his mouth kept going, and fuck it, maybe he deserved to be happy too. "We didn't discuss what I'll get when you get scared and walk out the door instead."

Merlin's mouth dropped in offence. "That's because you're not gettin' nothing, and you'll be talkin' with the Sheriff by night's end. For some measure of _talkin'_ , if you gather my meaning."

Gwaine's palm was suddenly slick with sweat and he couldn't hold on. Merlin pulled his hand free, turned around on his heel, and tugged on his vest, straightening it unnecessarily. Gwaine had the sick feeling that Merlin really was going to do it, and --

"Merlin --"

But he was gone, marching across the saloon with an presence overflowing with purpose. It was so intimidating that people scattered out of his way, so attractive that the crowd glanced up and watched him stride toward Pendragon, and --

There Merlin stopped, right in front of his beau where he was speaking to that railroad man. The hubbub of the crowd had ebbed, no longer so loud that Gwaine couldn't hear, and Gwaine's chest felt tight with anxiety on Merlin's behalf when Pendragon trailed off in his conversation, and looked up.

For an instant, Gwaine thought that would be it. Pendragon would say something in his pompous tone in an attempt to be cordial. Merlin would have a flashback to all the dinner parties he was once forced to attend and offer his best awkward rendition of polite manner. Pendragon would mock him, Merlin would take offence, they'd insult each other in rounds, and one of them would stalk off in a strop.

And then they would both pine. 

Well, Merlin would pine, that was for certain. Gwaine wasn't sure what Pendragon did, since he took care to avoid the town for weeks and stayed cooped up at the ranch, but Gwaine had it on good authority from Pendragon's staff that they were the victim of Pendragon's peculiarly bad mood during those times. 

Gwaine shouldn't have accepted the bet. Now he was going to have to watch Merlin get hurt, again.

He started to look away when, out of the corner of his eye, Merlin reached up and tilted his hat back. Pendragon raised a brow and opened his mouth to speak --

And Merlin, squaring his shoulders, took a step forward, grabbed Pendragon's tailored jacket, and pulled him in. They crashed into each other with an ungainliness that would've drawn a snicker on any other day, but Gwaine could only stare, his mouth open, as Merlin made good on his bet.

The initial collision readjusted itself and the kiss went on and on. Merlin's hand went around Pendragon's neck. Pendragon's arms went around Merlin's waist and held him so tightly it didn't look like anyone would be able to pry them apart anytime soon. 

The show the two men were putting on attracted a whole lot of attention. The saloon was loud with hoots and cheers. A few patrons exchanged money from what must have been private bets gauging the situation between Merlin and Pendragon. Even Gwaine's own staff were laughing and clapping. Elyan started up playing a wedding march on the piano.

The ruckus was Gwaine's excuse for not having heard the clink of an empty glass on the bar or noticing the the Sheriff leaning against it. Gwaine's mouth was still open with surprise at Merlin's boldness, and he clicked it shut a second later when he registered _Percival_ and _Talk to him_.

And, as usually happened whenever he was around Percival, Gwaine's mind went completely, utterly blank. The only sound he could make in approximation to a conversation was a high-pitched squeak. Flushing with embarrassment, Gwaine turned away from the slight curl of amusement touching Percival's lips. It was easier to think now that he wasn't looking at Percival.

"What can I get you?" Gwaine asked roughly.

There was no answer for the longest time. It had gone a little quieter in the saloon and the music was a rousing love song. Mithian was sitting next to Elyan on the bench and was singing; Sefa was half-sprawled in someone's lap and laughing, Elena gave someone one of her mesmerizing smiles and a come-hither wink. For a second, Gwaine thought that the Sheriff had left.

Then: "I heard you lost a bet."

_Oh, fuck you, Merlin_ , Gwaine thought, closing his eyes. He'd been right. The whole thing had been a ploy. Merlin had rigged the show all along. He had no idea what Merlin might have told Percival, but maybe there was an easy way out. He just couldn't think of one right now. He plain couldn't think, period, not around Percival.

Gwaine head dropped, and his hands went to his hips in defeat. "I might have done," he admitted.

"Well, then," Percival said, in that slow, thoughtful manner that seemed to accompany him no matter what he was doing, "Seems to me like I'm in good company."

"What," Gwaine said, turning only to stop halfway when he noticed that Merlin and Pendragon were no longer in the saloon. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I've been set up."

Percival snorted. "Myself as well, I think. Never thought Mr. Emrys was all that cunning. Too proper in his manners, too kind for deceit, and far too transparent when he lies. Maybe I should've cottoned on that a man who does as well as he does at the poker table has more than just a few cards up his sleeve."

"Yeah," Gwaine said. Merlin had changed a lot since they came out west. Or maybe he'd always been that way and he'd hidden it from everyone. Some days, like now, it felt to Gwaine as if he had an old friend that he was learning about all over again. "That one's full of surprises."

Percival snorted, as if that was nothing but putting it mildly. "So what were you supposed to do when you lost?"

Gwaine couldn't make himself look at Percival, never mind talk. He shrugged a shoulder. A disappointed pinch appeared in Percival's brow, but he seemed to gather himself up again.

"Well, me, I promised I'd do something I'd normally never do," Percival said. At Gwaine's curious glance, Percival gestured him closer, crooking a finger in invitation. When Gwaine finally gave in and inched closer, Percival smiled like he'd seen the sun rise for the first time.

That smile disarmed Gwaine long enough that he had no defence when Percival reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him over the bar.

The kiss was exactly as ungainly as it must have been when Merlin kissed Pendragon. Gwaine crashed into Percival's face with the distant awareness of a glass rolling off the bar. His nose was pressed into Percival's mouth, Percival's hands tightened as if he was afraid that Gwaine would pull away. The longer Gwaine remained frozen, the more Percival's hold loosened, as if he were the one to draw away.

Gwaine might be a coward, but he'd never not let it be said that he wasn't an opportunist, and this was an opportunity that he wasn't going to permit slide by. He tilted his head, adjusted his position, and pressed his lips to Percival's.

He was rewarded by a pleased little sound, the softening of Percival's lips, and a gentle, inquisitive kiss. Gwaine returned it with an encouraging hum, which Percival took as permission. Gwaine felt himself lifted up over the bar. His knees knocked against the edge of the bar, and he couldn't help but gape at Percival. He'd known the Sheriff was strong, but he was completely stunned by just how strong. Gwaine was not a small man, and he was hardly light, and Percival had lifted him up like he were nothin', and Gwaine…

Gwaine lost his train of thought, too distracted by the marvel of how perfectly he fit in Percival's lap.

Percival's smile was borderline smug, as if he'd won a prize but wasn't entirely sure it was his to keep. He raised a single brow, his eyes dropping down to Gwaine's mouth when Gwaine licked his lips. Somehow, despite the kiss and the manhandling, Percival still had enough presence of mind to string words together.

"That was mine," Percival said. "What was yours?"

"Talk," Gwaine gasped, barely managing to blurt it out. "To talk. To you."

The twitch of Percival's mouth was maddening. "Is that a fancy euphemism that you Easterners use?"

"Might be," Gwaine managed, because he couldn't think of anything else to say that wouldn't make him sound like a squawking duck. He shifted his position on Percival's lap to get a bit more comfortable, and couldn't help his grin when Percival groaned.

The next thing Gwaine knew, he was upside down, looking at Percival's fantastic arse from his perch on Percival's shoulder. His beautiful bar with the gorgeous barmaids and snarky piano player and laughing patrons all waved him good-bye as Percival carried him out of the saloon.


End file.
